Nemesis calls Percy the first thing the next day. He and Evie make it to Beaumort’s in extremely good time, and are let in. Monty greets them by the door, purring.

Percy smiles. “She’s doing better, then? Good to see. Artifice really is amazing, isn’t it?”

“She’s cute. Percy, do you think we should get a cat?” Evie agrees.

“I wouldn’t mind that. I think I’m more of a dog person, though. But that’s not why we’re here.” Percy looks seriously at Nemesis. “You said you had something very serious to tell us.”

“I do. Come inside.”

The three make their way up the stairs, and Theory greets them inside. They find their places at the table. Callie has regained consciousness since the day before, but she’s still not entirely coherent. She’s resting now, and according to Theory will simply need to sleep off the effects. Nemesis isn’t one to doubt her medical knowledge, which he’s sure is more robust than his single first-aid course’s worth.

“First off,” Nemesis says, “Charles Dreadful snuck me and Callie into Catacumba to get a guide to the etymologies of all known pre-Al-Mushrite languages so Theory could translate the book we stole from Fitzroy.”

“That’s a good idea,” Percy says. “I hear that place is terrifying, though. I’ve never been, obviously. What’s it like?”

“Whatever you’ve heard about it is probably true, no matter how absurd it may sound. But that isn’t important. What matters is that we couldn’t find the book, but we could find a record of who checked it out last.”

“And that was…?” Percy says, leaning across the table in his excitement.

“Phineas Sterling. Yes, that Phineas Sterling.”

Evie frowns. “He never goes outside, though. Why would he want that specific book badly enough to go to Catacumba? Is he even affiliated with the Institute in any way?”

“I did some research into that, actually. Dropped by the Cabinet and asked the staff in the most discreet way I could manage. One of them gave me this old newspaper clipping.” He places it onto the table. It’s a small section of an article titled ‘NEW ARTIST, STERLING, MAKES STUNNING DEBUT’. The photograph accompanying it displays a red-haired man, disheveled, hair tied back into a ponytail and small circular spectacles sitting on the end of his nose. From what Nemesis has seen, Sterling has barely changed since this photograph was taken, ten years ago or so. “According to this article, he attended, he graduated, and he’s still considered a friend to the Institute. Just hard to tell with how little he’s seen out and about.”

Percy nods. “...okay. That tracks. What now?”

“What now? I suppose we simply must steal the book from him. I won’t feel especially bad about it. I’ve no doubt he had his eyes on the same volume we just happened to steal. The fact that Elizabeth Calloway is connected to his organization and died in Fitzroy’s theatre makes me think there’s little doubt about it.”

“Then how do we go about this?”

“The gala they’re hosting for the new exhibition, of course.” Evie speaks up this time. “You know, as a co-worker of Morgana Fitzroy’s, I have a legitimate reason to attend. Percy could probably attend for his job, as well. Jones could find a way to sneak into Sterling’s study with that as cover.”

“I’m important and flashy enough that I have reason to be basically anywhere,” Nemesis says. “Or, at least, I look it.”

“I suppose I’m the only one of us four with no excuse to be there,” Theory says. “And yet, I’m the one who needs the book.”

“Oh, you can attend. I’ll come up with an excuse for you. Trust me,” Evie says, smiling...are Nemesis’s eyes deceiving him, or did she just wink at Theory?

“You will?”

Evie definitely winks this time. “Of course.”

Percy looks at Nemesis. “Is that the super concerning thing you called us here for?”

“Nah.” He frowns. “Horatio Guildenstern and Genevieve Merritt are both in town, which means Persephone Cross herself likely is as well. That means whatever’s happening here is significant enough to attract the Chancellor’s attention. And that’s terrifying.”

Percy frowns. “I’m surprised Ms. Alhazred hasn’t said anything. It seems like something she’d notice.”

“I just think she doesn’t want to tell you,” Evie says. “She’s a secretive person. You shouldn’t trust her as much as you do.”

“But she’s my boss…” Percy says, sighing. “Anyway, there’s nothing we can do about the chancellor of the Institute being involved. We’re just five people, one of whom isn’t even conscious right now. We’d be better off just ignoring it for now and hoping it goes away.”

“Reckon you might be right,” Nemesis agrees. And with that, he’s said all he needs to, and he has more important business to attend to. He stands, neatly replacing his chair.

“Where are you going?” Percy says, frowning.

“That’s all I needed to tell you. I’m a busy guy. I have other cases I’m working on, you know.” One singular other case, but it’s the most important case he’s ever worked on in his life.

“Does this mean we need to leave?” He asks, dejected.

“No,” Theory says. “You two can stay.” She’s looking at Evie when she says it, despite Percy having been the one who spoke.

Nemesis makes his way down the stairs. Behind him, he can hear them talking - Theory says something somewhat funny, and Evie breaks into peals of laughter he would think uncharacteristically enthusiastic of her. Monty says goodbye to him at the door, tail swishing.

He takes the long route by the harbor. There’s always something so comforting about the dull gray skies rolling with clouds, faint light visible on the horizon where the Umbra ends. The light rainfall has gradually begun to dampen his clothing. He doesn’t mind.

The wind blows in from the bay. The papers scattered across the ground are flung into the air. The wind in Omen tends to be strong. When he first arrived, it took him a few days to get used to it. There’s nothing more embarrassing than being blown off your feet by the wind in plain view of whoever is out on the street, he’s learned.

From the harbor, he enters the wrought-iron gates of Omen’s public gardens. Sponsored by the Institute, they collect the strangest and most useful flora from across the world, specifically those with medicinal properties. It’s always nice place to stroll through on a rainy day, in Nemesis’s opinion. His unique opinion, seemingly, because today they’re completely empty.

It isn’t until Nemesis has made it halfway along the garden’s walkway that he notices the mist creeping out from behind an elaborately sculpted topiary. Unlike the light fog that tends to be omnipresent around here, this mist is intense, thick, and familiar.

Salem Riddle is perched atop the topiary, swinging their legs idly as they observe Nemesis, a solid foot and a half below them. Their grin is unsettling, even from this distance. They’re wearing rectangular mirrored glasses, silver hair reaching to their waist, dressed in a green jacket and a knee-length black dress. They look nothing like how they did last time he encountered them, but the energy is impossible to forget. Some primal part of him knows precisely who they are.

Their smile is full of shark-sharp teeth, gleaming white even in the sunless weather.

They speak, and their voice sounds like a million whispers. At the same time, he can’t identify a single trait of it. “Well, well. You didn’t expect to see me here.”

He looks up at them. A feeling of terror makes itself apparent. He tenses. “Do you need something? You never told me what you wanted from me.”

“Don’t worry, don’t worry.” They smile more softly. It feels far from comforting. “You’re doing wonderful so far. You’ve made more progress than I expected.” Something about their tone, which he still can’t describe, feels incredibly condescending.

“I just don’t know what that progress is towards. Unless you’re that invested in this random murder you somehow knew was happening?”

They’re behind him suddenly, and he can’t hear them breathing, even as they lean in close enough that their heads are practically touching. “Tobias Fitzroy has something which is not his,” they hiss. “Something greater than him. It will see the stars again. You will make sure of this.”

They lean back. Before he can respond, they continue. “By the way, you and Hayes are playing a dangerous, dangerous game with that book. Here’s my advice: curiosity killed the cat. Be careful.”

And satisfaction brought it back, he thinks. He tenses. “...do you know where the book I couldn’t find in Catacumba is?”

“Of course, of course. It was checked out of the library at the same time as the text Hayes has her hands on, by the same person. Of course, they’re in different hands now. Oops!” They grin widely. “Everyone wants to get their hands on it. The people in this country don’t understand what it is they’re fighting over, but they’ll fight over it anyway! Until all of them end up dead, they’ll keep fighting! I think it’s really funny, don’t you, Nemesis Jones?”

“...I think it’s a little sad,” he answers honestly.

“I knew I could trust you,” they say. “You’re not a power-hungry guy, are you? You’ve just got a specific goal. And I wish you good luck with it. You have somewhere to be, don’t you, don’t you?”

“I s-” He glances back at them again, and they’re gone. “...ah. Alright.”

They’re right. He does have somewhere to be. Somewhere important. He’ll try to wipe this conversation from his mind, for the time being.

The building is far less towering than Catacumba. After yesterday, Nemesis is at least grateful for that. Instead, it’s a perfectly average brick building with a simple sign over the door. How refreshing.

He’s shocked that he’s here at all. He knows this must be a trap, after all. He even told Burke as much. And, because Callie is still resting, he’s here alone. Thankfully, he doesn’t have to worry about her, as she’s come back to consciousness and seems coherent enough. No long-term damage, surely. Despite that, she’s exhausted, understandably so. He’s not going to be dragging her with him.

Meanwhile, Theory is continuing to work on her translation unassisted. Nemesis has promised to attend the Cabinet’s banquet and attempt to steal her the book, but for the time being, there’s nothing he can do, and nothing she can do but continue to carve away at it.

It’s fine, in the end. This is the sort of thing he should be going about alone. He steels his nerves and knocks on the door.

And he stands in silence in the street, carriages and people passing by calmly. It feels like several minutes pass, and he’s sure people must be staring at him by now. Finally, just when he’s about to knock again, the door creaks open.

The woman at the door is just a hair taller than Nemesis. She’s dressed in a lab coat, a loose skirt that reaches to her ankles and a simple white blouse visible underneath. Her shoes, a pair of loafers, look scuffed and worn, the buckles having lost all of their shine. She has long, straight black hair, tied up in a messy bun, though many strands have come undone and are hanging down, the longest of them reaching to just above her waist. Her eyes are brown and tired, and her skin is pale, her age quite visible.

Burke’s description of her was perfect. Without a doubt, this is Dr. Lavinia Graves.

She looks disapprovingly at Nemesis. He finds himself just barely leaning on his toes, trying to make himself seem taller. Being the shorter one in a conversation is never something he’s liked. With someone significantly taller than him, there’s no helping it, but in this case, there might be.

Unfortunately, she seems to pick up on his efforts, because she silently raises an eyebrow. Great going, he thinks to himself, now she thinks you’re a bloody dork. Still, he tries to keep his composure, and clears his throat.

“I’m here on a referral from Aleister Burke,” he says plainly, hoping she understands his meaning.

It seems she doesn’t. She frowns. “Aleister Burke isn’t even a medical doctor. I don’t know why he’d refer you to my clinic.” Her voice is stern and accented.

“I mean, er, you know, I…” He sighs, unsure of how to phrase it. “It’s not for medical reasons, it’s…” He pulls out his compass, struggling not to drop it from nervousness.

She scrutinizes him, then nods. She definitely recognizes the compass. “You must be Arthur’s boy, then.”

“Aye, that’s me.” He tries not to let on how happy the phrase makes him, how he’s practically glowing with pride.

She nods. “You don’t even remotely resemble him.”

He’s more offended by that than he should be, considering that they aren’t related. He nods, though - he can’t disagree. “We’re different people, you see. Did you expect me to be a slightly smaller clone of him?”

“No. It’s just that you look nothing how he described you.”

Nemesis freezes. “He being...Mr. Jones?”

“Yes. He described you far less...affluent, to begin with.”

Nemesis feels his heart practically stop. This woman knows who he is. She knows what he was like, who he was, she knows…

“I’m Nemesis Jones,” he chokes out. “That’s my name. Nemesis Jones.”

She quirks an eyebrow. “Did I say otherwise, boy? Dr. Burke said as much. Odd name to choose if you’re presumably hoping to pass it off as not an alias, but I’m not in the business of revealing people’s secrets. Not without something in it for me, anyway.”

He hopes she can’t see him deflate in relief, the nervous twitch of his hands as he adjusts his cap, nodding. “I’m not trying to pass it off as my birth name. I like the flair it provides.”

“You really are different from him.” She stands aside, allowing him into the clinic.

“Do you think he would disapprove?” He asks, a touch more nervous than he should be allowing himself to be.

“I haven’t the foggiest.” She shrugs. “He’d probably not understand. Always was a subtle guy. Maybe he picked a flashy apprentice to balance that out, or something. I don’t know. It’s not as if he confided in me, precisely. Just sent me the occasional letter from Llygredyg.”

“He never told me you existed, but I knew he had associates in Omen. He didn’t talk about any of them beyond that.”

“Yeah…” she agrees. “Never was the sort of person to talk too much about anything not immediately relevant. He was a horror in university. Talked about nothing but assignments. Not sure why I liked him.”

That’s right, they had both gone to the University of Duskmoor. Nemesis simply hadn’t been aware they’d been classmates. “Was he very different back then?”

“You tell me. Out of the two of us, only one has seen him in the past seven years.”

He nods. It’s easy to forget that, when Arthur Jones had vanished, he was likely the closest to him of anyone. In any other situation, the thought might make him happy. Now, it just makes him sad. He had been a lonely man, with only an unpleasant teenager for company. How unenviable.

“That doesn’t sound unlike him, no.”

She sighs. “Shame. Hoped by this point he’d have learned to have fun. He’s almost forty. Not much time left for that.” Nemesis thinks to himself that this woman doesn’t seem as though she’s learned to have fun herself.

He can’t say that. The last thing he wants to do is anger his one lead.

He enters. The waiting room of the clinic is decorated comfortably, with furniture in various shades of black and gray. It’s not excessively expensive-looking, nor does it veer to the other end of the spectrum. A gray shawl is draped over a chair, and the tables are all covered with various books and magazines, tossed about with no regard. It isn’t unpleasing to the eyes, but it looks grandmotherly, if anything.

“You’re lucky I don’t have any patients in right now,” she says, sitting down on the rather comfortable-looking armchair. “They would have taken priority over you. Have you ever heard someone being operated on from the next room over?”

“That’s oddly specific. I’ve not.” Nemesis sits down on the significantly less comfortable chair.

“Well, you would have had to hear the screams and the sawing noises from over there,” she says, gesturing over her shoulder with her thumb. “Just the next room over. You can hear it rather well from here, I’m told.”

“The screams?” He frowns. “You don’t put your patients under?”

“It depends on the surgery. No need to, if you’re just amputating a leg. I do hear it’s quite painful, but then again, I’ve never had a leg amputated.”

“It is quite painful. Reckon that’s why people use anaesthesia, generally.”

“What would you know of it? Have you had a limb amputated?”

“Nah, but I’ve limbs attached to me and it hurts when they get stabbed, so I can extrapolate.”

To his surprise, she lets out a single quiet laugh. “You been stabbed often, boy?”

“Let’s say I’ve experience with the matter.” He shrugs, as though this isn’t a big deal. “Before I met Mr. Jones, of course. He wasn’t letting me get stabbed under his watch.”

“I should hope not. But I would also assume not. It would be quite unlike him. What I knew of him, at least.”

“He was always concerned about my safety. More than he had to be, even.” He tries his hardest to keep his voice even and steady so as to avoid letting on just how much it stings, remembering. “Was he always like that?”

“He was remarkably high-strung when I knew him. A lot of people got thrown off by it. He was always on top of everything, almost too much. Nervous. A little bit prone to snapping at people when they were being stupid.” Is it just him, or can he sense the barest hint of a smile growing on her face? “He had no idea how to function around people. Homeschooled when he was younger, apparently, and honestly, it explained a lot about him.”

“He was homeschooled?” It’s not as though Nemesis knows, or thinks he knows, remotely close to everything about Arthur Jones, but that something that major never came up over the seven years they knew each other…

“Allegedly. He never talked much about his childhood, but he mentioned it, once or twice. Had tutors, as he said. Rich uncle paid for them, and for university.”

“Well, I knew about the uncle, at least. I watched the office while Mr. Jones was at his funeral.”

“And how did he cope with him dying?”

Nemesis sighs. “...not great, I think. Didn’t talk much, for a while. Kept to himself. Focused on his work. Drank.”

Graves frowns. “Did he do that often?”

“Not at all. At least, not in front of me.”

“You know, that’s what he told me at one point or another. That he didn’t want to be a bad example, so he made sure he would be sober around you. I suppose it’s nice to hear that he stuck to that.”

Nemesis can’t help himself. He lets out a single laugh. “Trust me when I say it wouldn’t’ve made any difference to me.”

“But it did to him.” She sighs, running her hand through the loose sections of her hair. “He cares about you a lot, you know. Probably more than he wants to. He’s almost allergic to caring about people, but whenever he talked about you he seemed like a different person.”

Nemesis frowns. “That’s news to me. When he talked to me he seemed much the same as any other time.”

“Really?”

“Aye. Anything, he was pretty hard on me. Deservedly so, of course, but he was never exactly...glowing with praise.”

She stares at him quite seriously, brows furrowing. “...well. He was when he wrote to me, so think of that what you will. He certainly did tell me to pass a message on to you, so that at least implies some trust.

“He-” Nemesis can feel himself start. “He what? When? Why did you wait this long to tell me?”

“I didn’t know you were in town, first off. I checked in Citrea Viridia, and people had a lot to say about you. Of course, namely, that you’d-”

“I-I know. Sorry about that, by the way.” He feels panic rising. Half the point of becoming a new person was that this was a conversation he wouldn’t need to have anymore. “It’s not...it didn’t happen like they said, I’m not...I didn’t...I’m not that-”

“I know, I know. He made that perfectly clear to me.” Nemesis feels himself relax. For a moment there, he had felt as though his life was over again.

She shifts slightly. Is that concern or revulsion on her face? “In the last letter he sent to me, he included a section at the end. He said he needed me to pass it onto you.” Graves sighs. “In fact, you know what, I’ll just give you the whole letter. You look like you might be able to use it. Thank goodness Burke met you. Otherwise, who knows if you’d’ve ever gotten your hands on this thing.”

“...yes, thank goodness,” he agrees. His mind is racing - what has Mr. Jones been thinking? He knew he was going to vanish, obviously, or else he wouldn’t have been able to leave the compass behind for Nemesis. Did he plan this? Is this all a test? He wouldn’t do that, would he? He wouldn’t leave Nemesis to fend for himself, would he?

Would he?

Graves stands up, wincing. Nemesis notices her favoring her left leg as she crosses the room. “Let me just...get it from my study. Don’t touch anything, surely Arthur taught you it’s rude to touch people’s things.”

“He’s said something to the effect at some point, I reckon.” And Nemesis is sure he waved him off, because touching others’ things is half of what he does.

The realization that Mr. Jones might be disappointed in the person he’s chosen to be hits him like a bullet. He deflates in his chair, squeezes his eyes shut. Would he hate him? What will he do if he finds Mr. Jones, only to be met with that same look of loathing he’s been trying to escape? What will he do then?

He feels tears well up in his eyes, and he squeezes them tighter shut, hoping he can hide it from Graves. His stomach feels horribly twisted, and there’s a dull, sick feeling in his heart. If Mr. Jones were to ever hate him, he knows he wouldn’t be able to ever recover.

He hears a door close, footsteps following immediately after. Graves sounds nonchalant, when she speaks, but not entirely absent of concern. “Have you had a stroke while I’ve been out, boy?”

“N-No,” he says, hurriedly sitting up. “No, I’m fine. I’m fine.”

“Good. I think Arthur would kill me if you got hurt in my office, and I don’t feel like dying right now.” She holds out a thin envelope which has clearly been opened before, and he takes it nervously, turning it over.

The envelope is old and plain white. Written in plain black ink, the return address is in a neat, yet elegant hand which Nemesis could never possibly forget.

With shaking hands, he opens it, taking out the two pages inside and unfolding them. They’re typed neatly, but he would recognize the style of writing anywhere.

“He really wrote this,” he mutters, more to himself than to Graves.

Clearly, though, she interprets this as intended for her. He supposes it’s not surprising, them being the only two in the room and all. “Of course he did. Who else would have? No one else ever sends me letters. People barely even send me mail at all, just the occasional telegram telling me about some or other medical conference that I feel obliged to attend despite my utter disinterest.”

“That’s part of work, isn’t it? Getting telegrams about things you can’t possibly care less about. He used to complain about that all the time.”

“Yes, I can imagine he’d hate that. He hates needless clutter and pointless conversations. He always has.” She pauses. “Speaking of...what he used to be like...I have something else I think you might want to see.”

Nemesis watches as she pulls another envelope from behind her back. Was she hoping to surprise him? From it, she takes a single bit of paper, holding it out to him. A photograph.

It’s old, frayed at the edges, and faded, but he can immediately recognize some of the faces in it. There are three people, university aged, in what looks like a small, quaint cafe. One is immediately recognizable as a younger Graves, with a less tired face and neater clothing. Next to her is a brown-skinned man with neat hair tied back in a ponytail, smiling fondly at the other two.

And on the side, smiling a tired and half-hearted smile, is another man. Even twenty years or so younger, he’s easily recognizable. He looks a little less tired, and his hair is a little bit longer, tucked behind his ears, but there’s the same green eyes, the same square glasses, slightly askew. He’s dressed casually, though neatly - a neat white button-up and brown trousers.

“This was before he started favoring brown tweed, then,” he remarks.

“Yes, that didn’t happen until after he graduated. I kept telling him it aged him a solid ten years, but he said he didn’t mind.”

“It doesn’t make him look that much older.”

She raises an eyebrow. “How old is he? Forty-five, right?”

“Well, he’s never precisely told me. But that seems about right.”

She lets out a single laugh. “Thirty-nine, actually. But I don’t blame you for thinking he’s older. He looked in his thirties when he was twenty-five.”

“He...he’s what now?” Nemesis sighs, putting his head in his hands. “...I can’t believe I didn’t so much as know how old he is. He’s been my employer since I was thirteen, and I only ever bothered to assign him the nebulous age of ‘old’.”

Graves chuckles. “Not that I think he wouldn’t be offended, but he’d also likely be relieved. He’s a remarkably secretive person, so the fact that even his own apprentice wouldn’t know might be a little reassuring.”

“I don’t think he’s quite that bad about it. I just don’t think it was ever on either of our minds. I think I know him pretty well, all things considered. At least, I, er…” He sighs. “I like to hope so.”

“Based on how he talked about you, I think there’s a good chance you do. Like I said, he cares for you greatly.” She smiles, thinly, giving the distinct appearance of someone who hasn’t smiled in years.

Nemesis takes one last long look at the photograph, taking in the image of Arthur Jones’s face. It’s different, yes, but it’s him, real, smiling. He can’t help but smile back. “Thank you for showing me this. I assume you’ll want it back?”

“Of course. Not that I’d normally begrudge you a photograph, but there aren’t many photographs of the three of us.” She leans over, pointing to the other man. “That’s my husband. Viktor. I’m not very photogenic, so we don’t have many pictures of the two of us together. If I’d’ve known beforehand what would happen, I would have made sure to take more, but when you’re in the moment it’s so easy to assume that you have forever.”

“Is he...is he dead?” Nemesis asks, nervous.

“He is. Died during some…” She frowns. “...society business. Dr. Burke has told you about the Correspondents, I assume. His death at the hands of an Eye was part of what caused us to fall apart. Ever since, I’ve no interest in that sort of thing.”

“That sounds...fair enough. I think Mr. Jones was much the same. He always warned me about how evil societies are. Told me to never get involved. And I’ve not, out of respect for him.” He erases all of Percy’s suggestions of forming a society from his mind.

“And that’s why the two of us have remained in contact. Dr. Burke and Dr. Apollinaire, as well. But the rest of them…” Her face shifts, more concerned. “They’re not trustworthy. They’re still involved in all the secret wars going on here. I refuse to associate with people like that. The last thing I want is to be dragged back into it.”

“That’s perfectly understandable. Truth be told, I don’t like society types either.” He chooses to ignore his associations with Percival Chase, who he, upon reflection, likes a little more than he would like to. “I only ever work with them out of necessity. The thing is that most of them are quite bribeable. I don’t think that’s a good trait, but it’s convenient for me.”

She snorts. “Can’t imagine Arthur taught you that.”

“Oh, he didn’t. Discouraged it, actually. I’ve merely got to get to the bottom of things somehow.”

“Well, I won’t tell him.” She takes the picture back. “Check inside the envelope, by the way. There was something else enclosed that I think you’ll like. And this time, I’ll let you keep it.”

Nemesis looks in the envelope. Inside is another thin sheet of paper.

As he takes it out, Graves smiles. “He said in his letter this was so I could recognize you if I saw you. All things considered, though, it was far from helpful.”

When Nemesis sees what’s printed on the paper, he has to stop himself from audibly gasping, or even bursting into tears.

The picture is taken by the side of the River Aderyn. In it, Arthur Jones is older, more tired-looking, but despite that, he’s smiling. His hair is shorter now, neatly cropped and swept to the side. It’s not the most fashionable style, but it’s practical. He’s dressed in the familiar brown tweed suit, and he looks disheveled, out-of-breath.

The person he’s smiling at is barely recognizable. A boy who Nemesis knows is eighteen, though he looks a sliver younger. He has long, unkempt brown hair, but the same brown skin and silver eyes. He’s dressed simply, and he’s smiling as well.

That’s not characteristic. Nemesis knows enough about this boy to know that he used to scowl, more often than not. But in this picture, he seems happy.

“I remember this,” he says. “This was around two months before he vanished, after I’d managed to track down a rather prolific thief by intercepting a message he sent to his accomplice. We went to get tea afterwards, and he insisted on taking this picture. I suppose now I know why.”

“You say that so casually. Did you do things like that often?”

“No, this was the first time I ever pulled anything like that off. Before that, I mainly just ended up spying on people, which he generally disapproves of. But then, he seemed so genuinely proud of me. He’s not normally...the type to praise me overtly, but he could barely shut up about how thrilled he was afterwards. It was…” He can’t help but smile to himself. “It was probably the best day of my life.”

“He was sparing with kind words, yes. I’m sure he’ll have nothing but praise for you after you track him down. And I believe that you will be able to.”

“I...hope you’re right. I really do.”

“I tend to be right.” She sighs, standing up. “That being said, I’ve got scalpels to clean. Performed a leg amputation earlier today, and yes, I did use anaesthesia. So, for now, off with you.”

“I had been hoping that was a joke,” he admits, “but I can’t always entirely tell and I thought it might be rude to look at my compass when you know exactly what it does.”

“Not rude. I understand why you might want to. In fact, why don’t you get it out now? If you’re anything like Arthur, you’ll want the peace of mind.”

“If you’re alright with it.” He takes out the compass and clicks it open. There’s a purple needle pointing towards Graves.

To his utter confusion, Nemesis notes that the arrow fixed on him is glowing a sliver less than it was the last time he checked. He has to squint, but it’s unquestionable. Somehow, the compass thinks he’s a tiny bit more honest than he was before.

Graves clears her throat. “Everything I said to you today was completely honest, including and especially the things I said about Arthur Jones, the late Viktor Graves, and the Greater Omen Correspondents’ League. The part where I implied I do not provide proper anaesthesia for my patients was a joke, which is a thing that I am capable of telling.”

Fully honest. He shuts the compass and pockets it again. “Er...I really can’t thank you enough. For everything, but…”

“Of course. I know how Arthur always was, convinced everyone was lying to him no matter what it was they were saying. I wasn’t about to let you agonize over my words like he used to, before the compass.” She smiles. “Now get going. And I’ll trust in your abilities. Bring back my best friend, Nemesis.”

“I’ll do my best. I promise.”

After he closes the door behind him, he waits a moment in the street, watching the passerby and observing the soft wind blowing through the trees.

Predictably, the Chases are gone by the time he returns to Beaumort’s. Less predictably, Theory is as well.

Monty greets him at the door, rubbing against his legs. He picks her up with a soft smile, ignoring the fact that her fur will inevitably get all over his clothing. She purrs loudly.

“I’ve never seen a cat get attached to someone so quickly,” he remarks to Callie, who is sitting on the staircase. “Back when I used to feed stray cats in Citrea Viridia, they were scared of me. They’d hiss or scratch, even. Not that it stopped me doing my best to help the unfortunate creatures, but it’s shocking to see how different this one is."

“She’s very nice. She’s the first cat I’ve ever met, though.” Her voice sounds a bit more quiet. Subdued. Morose.

“Why are you just sitting on the stairs, then?” He sits next to her, holding out Monty.

She pets Monty’s head. “I’ve been thinking.”

“You have? And here I thought you weren’t capable.” He chuckles, ruffling her hair with one hand. “Really, though, what’s been on your mind?”

“I don’t like being left alone, because my mind starts to wander. I start to think about what happened, and...my life. Mysteries that I can’t really solve right now.”

“You mean what happened to Art?”

She nods. “I can’t stop thinking about it. I never realized how strange my life was until I met you. Why would he have chosen to live outside of society? Why take me with him? We’re siblings. That means we have the same parents, right? Then who are our parents? Why did I never get to meet my own parents? Where are they? Why did Art never tell me about them?”

“Those are…” He sighs. “...good questions. Questions I don’t have the answers to.”'

“Nemesis?” Her voice is even quieter. “What’s it like...to grow up in society? To be normal? To have parents?

He laughs, despite himself, feeling like the most insensitive person alive as he does it. “I wouldn’t know on the latter two counts. As for the former, I think it’s horrid. But experiences may vary. Like I said, I wouldn’t know what it’s like to be normal.”

Her eyes widen. “That’s right. You don’t have a family.”

“Right. Right, you’ve got me. I don’t have a family.” He sighs. “And before you ask me what it’s like, it’s bloody awful.”

“I figured that much. Art was a little bit much to deal with sometimes, but I’m still grateful that he was there for me. He took care of me my whole life. He taught me everything I know. Even if he was a bit mean and self-absorbed sometimes, he really cared about me. I can’t imagine how I would have managed if I didn’t have him.”

“So you love your brother. That’s good, that’s a good thing.” He smiles. “And I’ll help you find him. Promise.”

“I hope we can. I...I don’t know how, though.” Her hands shake as she stares down at them. “The reason...the reason I’ve been so tired and useless lately...is because I’ve been completely restless, thinking about him. I’ve barely been able to sleep.”

Nemesis thinks back to his conversation with Lavinia Graves. She knew Art as well, so he could have asked her. He was simply too caught up in thinking about his own issues. He tries to comfort himself by rationalizing that she’s distanced herself from the Correspondents, but so has Apollinaire, and so has Mr. Jones. He could at least have asked.

Callie leans closer to him. “Are you okay? You look really upset, all of a sudden.”

“I’m fine, I’m fine. You’re the one unable to sleep. I just wish there were more I could do to help. Here I was, celebrating over good news on my case, and I entirely forgot that you’re looking for someone important to you, as well. How…” He takes a deep breath. “...how selfish of me.”

“It isn’t.” She puts a hand on his shoulder, and Monty rubs against his other arm. “It’s not selfish of you to care about people. And it’s not selfish to think about yourself. Who else are you supposed to think about? You’re inside your own brain all the time. No matter how selfless you want to be, it’s literally impossible to think about other people before you think of yourself.”

“I...I dunno,” he says, even though he knows she’s right. “I want to be a good person. It’s so hard to be a good person when you aren’t a good person, but...he thought I could be one, if I tried. I don’t want to prove him wrong.”

“Prove who wrong?”

That’s right. She doesn’t even know who Mr. Jones is. Nemesis takes a deep breath. “My...teacher. Mr. Jones. The man who saved my life. He’s the person I’m looking for, the original owner of my compass. He means everything to me, and he needs me to find him. If I can’t find him, I don’t know what I’ll do.”

“...what was he like?”

“Where to start? He was...terrifyingly intelligent. He was hard-working, neat. Strict, sometimes. Most of the time, actually. He was horribly stern to me most of the time, but he was never mean.” He smiles to himself. “He had a temper. I know that much. I never experienced it firsthand, but I saw him lose it at other adults sometimes. He actually slapped the dean of my school. Stern or not, he got angry when people mistreated me. I’d never had anyone do that before. Elias was normally too scared to speak up, and I didn’t blame him. He was getting just as much shit as I was.”

“Art was similar, I guess. He was smart. Not neat, he was more scatterbrained than you are, but he’s nothing if not hard-working. He has a temper. It was directed at me, sometimes, or inanimate objects, but he always apologizes afterwards. He was a bit gruff and mean, but when he was happy, it was wonderful. We’d just sit, look at the stars, and read.”

“Mr. Jones would play the violin for me sometimes. He’s a wonderful violinist.” He smiles wistfully. “And we used to talk about books. He didn’t have much time to read, but I did. He hated Dick Remington, but he’d listen to me talk about it. He really was a remarkably patient man.”

“Art wasn’t patient. But he’s my brother. He’s the only person I ever had. I miss him.” She lowers her head. “The thing I got from Catacumba...somehow, some of his blueprints ended up there. Seeing his handwriting reminded me that he existed. I knew him at one point, even if he’s missing now. I…had to take it.”

“I understand. Really, I do, I had almost the exact same thought today about what little of Mr. Jones’s I have left.” He smiles a little. “...anything interesting in those blueprints? Useful, even?”

She shakes her head. “Nothing any of us would understand. Even Theory, I think. He really was a one-of-a-kind genius. Like he said, no one else has ever been able to measure up to his skill as an inventor.”

That’s the first Nemesis has heard of that. He thinks it makes Art sound rather like a full-of-himself jerk, but that’s the last thing he’s about to say out loud. “Despite that, I’m glad you have it.”

“Thank you, Nemesis. Really.” She smiles weakly up at him. “You’ve been kind to me. Without you around, I have no idea what I would be doing. You’re almost like a second brother to me.”

He’s taken aback by that. “Surely...surely I can’t mean that much to you. We’ve barely known each other for a month.”

“But you do. You’ve kept me from being lost on my own in the city, and you’ve been helping me not fall apart. And you care about me, right?”

“Of course I do, but-”

“So don’t argue with it.”

He laughs. “Alright, alright. I won’t. You know, I...I think Mr. Jones would like you.”

“I’m not sure what Art would think of you. I think you two might fight. You’re both stubborn. But I want to hope you’d like each other.”

“We’ll see when we track him down, won’t we?” He smiles, standing up. “Come on. We can’t just sit here in the stairwell.”

“Right.” She gets up. “Maybe I’ll read some of the books you talk about now. I hope I’ll like them more than your Mr. Jones did.”

He smiles. “I hope so. I don’t think I could take it if you didn’t. No one in my life understands why I like them so much, and it’s a bloody travesty. And, for the record, you’re going to sleep early tonight, because you need to make up that sleep debt. You don’t have a choice in the matter. I’ll lecture you on the complex chemical properties of potassium until you pass out cold.”

“That’s just cruel and unusual…” She giggles. “I’ll try to sleep. Promise.”

The two ascend the stairs, Monty close behind.

Before he goes to bed that night, Nemesis sits by his cork board, reading the letter over and over again. The voice is so undeniably his, so undeniably familiar. Though the content is worrying, there’s something comforting about simply seeing his writing again. The confirmation that he hadn’t simply abandoned him, as well, is enough to make Nemesis smile to himself. Things aren’t hopeless. There’s a goal visible beyond the horizon, and Mr. Jones is cheering for him to reach it.

The code at the end is a little harder to deal with. It looks like a substitution cipher, but all attempts at solving it produce gibberish. Hours later, he’s run out of energy. Pages and pages of calculations with no real results.

Mr. Jones, what do you want from me?

The photograph taken by the river goes to the very backmost section of his wallet. No one can see it, that way, but he’ll know it’s there, and carry it with him. That much is reassuring.